


Waiting Game

by Rrrowr



Series: The Check List [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom/sub Undertones, Hair-pulling, Handcuffs, M/M, Oops probably feelings, Questionable consent near the end but the rest is enthusiastic, Rimming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Stiles has a taste for what it's like, he's brimming with eagerness. Stiles plays it off as a kind of confidence, but that doesn't sit right on his shoulders, in his spine, in his hands. He passes Peter hot glances, slow smiles. His mouth is always, always open, like he's remembering what it was like to have Peter's hand in his hair while he blew him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting Game

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry that it has been SO LONG between updates on this series. Please enjoy this! I had a lot of fun writing it myself!

Peter should have known better than to think that Stiles would wait patiently. At first, he doesn't plan on making him wait longer than a few days, but suddenly the idea of holding back has shown its appeal. Now that Stiles has a taste for what it's like, he's brimming with eagerness. Stiles plays it off as a kind of confidence, but that doesn't sit right on his shoulders, in his spine, in his hands. He passes Peter hot glances, slow smiles. His mouth is always, always open, like he's remembering what it was like to have Peter's hand in his hair while he blew him.

Neither of them are being particularly subtle about this shifted dynamic, but everyone else seems to enjoy their ignorance. Perhaps they think it's due to Peter having risen from the dead. Who knows what any of them think really? None of them say anything.

"How long are you going to keep me waiting?" Stiles asks at the end of one night. Both of them had been slow to leave Derek's loft after the meeting, and their reward is the relative privacy of night, wrapping warm around them as they get near Stiles' jeep. "It's been a week already."

Peter hums deeply, letting the sound reverberate between them. "Impatient?"

Stiles shrugs, sniffing nonchalantly as he looks away. "Just making sure you didn't change your mind."

The admission brings out the wolf in Peter. It's such a young concern, an insecurity that Peter would like to savor as much as he would like to wipe it out. He rarely has the patience to deal with the fickle emotions of others — unless it's to his benefit, of course — and he wonders what Stiles would be like without this fear.

Devastating, probably. As much of a predator as Peter.

He reaches out to grab Stiles' wrist and in a swift move, has the boy pinned between him and the body of his jeep, arm twisted behind his back. Stiles struggles until he accepts that he doesn't have the leverage, and then surrenders, resting his cheek against the driver side window and searching for Peter's face in his periphery. Peter presses his nose against the nape of Stiles' neck, breathing in his arousal and stress before setting his teeth against his skin. He doesn't bite hard but it's a tempting thought when Stiles stiffens in fear before going soft again. Peter rumbles a low growl, tightening his jaw by a fraction, and Stiles trembles.

"Peter," he says in a rough voice.

If Stiles had been planning on saying more than that, it gets lost in a tight whine when Peter drags his palm over the curve of his ass, stroking upward and squeezing the soft muscle and fat with a hard grip. Stiles doesn't say a word of protest, panting against the window, eyes closed as he takes what Peter gives him.

"I think you have been impatient," Peter says, murmuring the words to the wet skin that bears his teeth marks. "I bet you haven't been able to stop thinking about my tongue in your ass since I gave you the idea. You've probably spent this last week jerking your pretty cock raw just thinking about it, hoping that night would be the one I chose."

Stiles rocks his hips back with a whimper, smelling so sweet and inviting. Peter digs his fingers in along the middle seam of Stiles' jeans, hating the thickness of the fabric and how it keeps him from feeling Stiles' hole. He knows he finds it though because Stiles lets out a sharp sound and arches into his touch even more, shifting in the tiny ways that would have Peter's fingertips pressing against his rim.

"I was always going to make you wait," Peter tells him, pressing closer. Stiles shakes between Peter and the wall of the jeep. There's barely enough room for Peter's hand, but he keeps it between them, rubbing Stiles through his clothes. "The anticipation is half the fun, don't you think? Waiting for me to follow through with what I've promised."

The way Stiles groans breathlessly makes Peter want to do a thousand things, none of which he has any interest of doing on the street outside his nephew's loft. Stiles is hot against his chest. The hand Peter has wrenched up behind his back scratches over Peter's ribs, and tightening his grip has Stiles' breath hitching in tiny catches of air.

"Fuck, Peter," Stiles says. "If you don't do something tonight, I'll—" 

Peter spins Stiles around and kisses him before he can finish his sentence. It's a move that startles the both of them, honestly, but Stiles recovers far more quickly, grabbing at Peter and kissing back hungrily. Peter's hesitation lasts a split second longer, though Stiles doesn't seem to notice. This is not their first kiss, Peter knows, but it is the first time Peter sought it out. It's the first time they've kissed purely for the feeling of their mouths moving against each other. Peter ignores the unsettled feeling that chases the realization.

He grabs at Stiles' hair harshly and yanks him away. Stiles grunts at the pressure, but merely licks at his lower lip while he looks down his nose at Peter, straining against his grip. Peter holds Stiles' gaze as his eyes burn blue, and asks, "What was that you were saying? If I don't do something tonight, you'll…. what, exactly?"

Stiles fights a little until Peter lifts him off his feet by pulling one thigh to his waist and holding him against the jeep with his hips. He isn't as tall as Stiles, but when he hefts Stiles up, his hanging leg can only scrape the ground. It's enough to rattle Stiles' confidence.

"Do you think you'll find someone else to eat you out until you come?" Peter asks. Stiles jerks in his arms, hard cock against Peter's belly. "I'm sure you could if you wanted to. There are plenty of men in the world that would take the first taste of your ass if you let them." Peter bites at the angle of Stiles' jaw and is rewarded by a thready moan in his ear. "Do you want me to let you find one of them? Or are you going to be a good boy and wait for me?"

Stiles' fingers curl so tightly in Peter's shirt that his knuckles grind together. Generously, Peter lets Stiles have his moment of indecision, and instead, savors the sound of Stiles' breath turning ragged as Peter noses along the smooth slope of his neck. Stiles seems like he wants to let Peter go, but every time his grip loosens, he's fisting Peter's shirt again a second later — clearly torn.

Eventually, however, Stiles whispers, "No."

"No, what?"

Stiles inhales unsteadily. "No, don't let me find someone else. I'll… I'll wait. I'll be good."

Peter pecks a kiss by Stiles' ear. "How good?"

Abruptly, Stiles shoves Peter with both hands catching him under the jaw. "Don't push it," he hisses as Peter drops him, stumbling backward a couple steps.

A few seconds later, Stiles is in the jeep and kicking gravel out behind him as he accelerates away. Peter watches the jeep's tail lights turn the corner at the end of the street with a smile on his face. An amused laugh huffs out of him, and wiping his mouth with the side of his hand, Peter turns toward his car too.

*

They're lucky that things have been quiet lately, with no big bad monsters coming out of the woodworks to cause trouble. It means that Peter doesn't have to worry about anything interrupting him when he discreetly follows Stiles home. Peter watches for a while before he approaches the house through the backyard, though — assesses Stiles' mood so that he knows what he's going to be dealing with. Judging by the way Stiles throws his stuff around and sheds his clothes with aggressive tugs, he is not happy about Peter making him wait. 

Unaware of Peter watching from the edge of the property — and apparently, not very concerned about his open windows — Stiles starts rummaging through drawers for fresh clothes, but once he has them tucked under his arm, he pauses in front of the mirror on his bathroom door. Peter peers closer when he sees Stiles giving his reflection a critical eye, when Stiles lifts his hand to his neck. It's difficult to tell from a distance, but when Stiles tilts his head to the side, Peter sees it: a small red mark at the corner of his jaw. 

Peter looks away for a second, trying to remember if he bit Stiles hard enough to mark him. He doesn't think he lost control earlier, but— No. In all likelihood, the mark was incidental. Chances were that it was just a spot Stiles had scratched at. It probably had nothing to do with Peter.

Shaking his head, Peter looks up to Stiles' bedroom again. He's nowhere to be seen, but Peter can hear a shower running and the splash of water on tile as Stiles washes. Making quick work, Peter sneaks into Stiles' house and gets everything ready for his return. Stiles failed to turn on any lights beyond the one from the bathroom, so the bedroom is dark except for the moonlight. By the time Stiles turns the water off and starts toweling himself dry, Peter is waiting in Stiles' desk chair, ready to give him what he wants.

None the wiser, Stiles comes back in, more relaxed than before, bare feet padding across the carpet while he scrubs at his wet hair. He tosses the towel toward the desk without looking, out of habit, and Peter catches it in the air before it can hit him. The towel smells like soap when Peter presses it to his face — soap and clean, damp skin.

He folds the towel over one of the chair's arms and leans his elbow on the other, watching as Stiles scoops up his phone and plugs it into the charger for the night. When Stiles stretches his arms above his head, Peter drags his gaze along the curve of his bare back, the youthful line of his body only interrupted when Peter reaches the elastic waistband of Stiles' underwear. It's such a casual display of his body that Peter has to wonder if Stiles really _doesn't_ know that someone else is in the room.

Still, when Peter clears his throat loudly, Stiles whirls around so quickly that he slams his hip against his bedside table with enough force to nearly send a lamp tumbling to the floor. Stiles curses as he steadies the lamp, and after he turns it on, he glares in Peter's direction with a scowl.

"What do you want now?" Stiles demands. "Don't tell me you're here to make sure I'm being a _good boy_."

Peter smiles, leaning back as he folds his fingers together across his middle. "Are you going to be this bitchy about everything on your sexual wishlist?"

"Bitchy?" Stiles echoes, voice pitched with incredulity. "I'm not! You're the one being mean! You got me all wound up and then didn't—" Cutting himself off with an irritated hiss, Stiles crosses his arms and looks pointedly away. When he speaks again, he's calmer but still grumbling. "I'd just like to be sure you aren't stringing me along. That's all."

Raising a brow, Peter opens his arms in invitation. "Come on then," he says soothingly. "Let me kiss that wounded ego of yours all better." 

Stiles lip curls, but he gives in reluctantly when Peter beckons with his fingers. He drops his arms and shuffles toward Peter with all the sulky sensitivity of a teenager. When their knees are close enough to knock, however, Stiles hesitates. "I thought you wanted me to wait some more," he says cautiously.

"I get the feeling that if I made you wait any longer, you wouldn't have me checking anything off your list again," Peter admits. Stiles shifts like he wants to argue the idea, even if it's true. Peter sighs and hooks his fingers with Stiles'. "Perhaps I shouldn't have played the waiting game before we got to know each other better. Oh well, live and learn."

"So you think sneaking into my room for sex will get you back on my good side?" Stiles scoffs. "You're unbelievable."

Grinning, Peter tugs at his hand. Stiles leans away fussily, making Peter tighten his grip. When he pulls harder, Stiles folds heavily into Peter's lap and forces Peter to take his weight. He still wears a sullen expression, but when Peter hauls him in, Stiles steadies himself against Peter's shoulders and doesn't seem inclined to remove them.

"I have no interest in your good side. But if you want," Peter says, teasing his fingers under the hem of Stiles' underwear, "I can make some headway to the top of your bad side."

To his credit, Stiles tries very hard to not be charmed, but the effort only lasts a couple heartbeats before his stubbornness starts to falter. Biting his lip and ducking his head to hide the pinking of his cheeks can only do so much against the senses of a werewolf, however. Stiles' body grows warmer by the second, flushing with uncertain arousal as Stiles starts to accept Peter's purpose in showing up. Even his scent becomes as sweet as before, drawing Peter in until he yearns for the taste of Stiles' mouth.

"You're terrible," Stiles murmurs, smothering the words against Peter's lips as they kiss. 

Peter has to coax the passion out of Stiles this time. He has to nurture the nervous explorations until Stiles is squirming with his eagerness. Stiles gasps for air between kisses, clutching at Peter like he's afraid he'll be told to wait again. He licks at Peter's mouth, bites at him with gentle nips at first and then with more ferocity when Peter growls at him. 

"The things I'm going to do to you," Peter warns.

A light laugh spills out between them. "Go on. Do it," Stiles says, yelping when Peter pushes to his feet with Stiles in his arms. He digs his fingers into Peter's shoulders, laughing again. "Do your worst to me, Peter. I dare you."

Peter takes great pleasure in tossing Stiles onto his bed and watching him bounce and scramble not to fall off the other side. He crawls after Stiles, chases him right to the headboard, and looms over him with a feral grin. Finding the cuffs he hid earlier, Peter captures one of Stiles' wrists with a simple slip of the hand and sits back when Stiles tests the restraint with a couple firm yanks. Stiles' heartbeat kicks up in its pace once he realizes that he's not going anywhere, anxiety starting to sour the edges of his scent. Peter makes a show of pulling the key out of his pocket and putting it on the table next to Stiles' cell phone. That's enough to calm Stiles down again, enough to have him relaxing into the bedding with a sly smile.

"Oh, no," Stiles says, rather sing-song. He bats his lashes at Peter. "I've been caught. Gosh, Mr. Hale, is there anything I can do to convince you to let me go?"

Peter quickly puts a finger against Stiles' mouth to shush him. "No. We are not role playing cheesy porn plots."

"Oh, come on!" Stiles whines, shaking his bound wrist so that the cuffs rattle. "This is basically asking for it! Really? Never ever?"

Sighing as he slides down to the foot of the bed, Peter gives the idea some thought. "Maybe not _never_ ," he concedes, rolling his eyes when Stiles gives a victory whoop. "Not tonight though. You'll have to convince me first."

"I'll convince you alright," Stiles says. "I'll convince you _so hard_ —"

Peter flips Stiles onto his hands and knees before he can say the rest of the sentence and promptly smacks Stiles' upturned rump before he can voice his surprise. "Later," he tells Stiles. "Right now, I'm here for this."

Twisting so that he can glance at Peter over his shoulder, Stiles ultimately lets his head hang from his shoulders sinking down to his elbows while his ass arches into Peter's hand. "Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, you just. Knock yourself out."

Getting to see the definition of Stiles' back in the lamp light is much better than the shadowed view Peter managed before. The light is warm and orange, making Stiles' skin glow. The only shadows left are the shallow ones in the divot of his spine and the wings of his shoulder blades, and Peter follows them with skimming fingers, tracing so gently that Stiles giggles, ticklish.

There's a perverse kind of enjoyment that Peter gets out of getting Stiles naked in his childhood bedroom. Stiles may not be old enough to have grown up and moved on to a place of his own, but Peter is the first person to touch Stiles like this. The things these walls will hear tonight are going to be downright sinful. He's going to make sure that Stiles will never be able to step foot in this room again without remembering all the things Peter's done to him.

Stiles wiggles helpfully when Peter hooks a finger in the back of his underwear and drags them down to his ankles. Peter sweeps them off the end of the bed and turns back to the expanse of bare skin available to him. Stiles has his head pillowed on his arms, and his long legs are spread to either side of Peter's knees, looking as if they've hardly seen sunlight. Reaching out, Peter slides his hands up those legs and squeezes the pert domes of Stiles' ass, spreading them until the shadowed crease between them melts away to reveal the pink furrow of his hole. When Peter thumbs around it, the skin is still a bit damp from Stiles' shower, gripping faintly to the tip of his finger as it passes. Peter runs his thumb around and around Stiles' hole, brushing through the coarse hair tangled below it. Stiles twitches and clenches with every touch that comes near, but the more time that passes without Peter doing more, the less Stiles fights the exploration. 

Instead, Stiles pushes into it, bold again and impatient. "You just gonna stare at it all night or what?" he asks, soft but for that edge of nerve.

Licking one of his thumbs, Peter puts it right back on Stiles' entrance and rubs the wet all over it while Stiles chokes for breath and squirms. "I'm not in a rush," he says. "We have all night, don't we?"

Stiles is mottled pink all the way to his hairline as he nods. "Dad's got night shift. Gets back at six."

"Lovely," Peter purrs, spreading Stiles' cheeks apart as far as they'll go, and bends to lick all the way from Stiles' sack to the twin dimples of his spine. Crying out, Stiles stiffens in a tight arch. Peter breathes deeply at the sweat just starting to gather on his skin before nipping at one fleshy curve. "Just lovely."

Surprisingly, Stiles is mostly quiet when Peter really starts to eat him out. What noises he does make get smothered against the pillow Stiles tries to hide his face in. Peter hears them all perfectly, of course — every hiccup of sound, every catch in his voice, the shaky quality of his breath as Stiles tries to maintain control. This is, Peter thinks, the best part of being Stiles' first. Without experience, all his reactions are the genuine article, helpless against the onslaught of new sensations. He doubts Stiles even has the presence of mind to be able to find something to concentrate on to keep him from coming too soon.

Normally, Peter doesn't bother with a slow start when he rims someone, but he feels generous tonight, pleased to move his tongue in teasing flicks that make Stiles shudder and whine for more. So soon after his shower, the scent of soap remains strong, and Peter licks it away with broad sweeps as he searches for the richer smell Stiles naturally gives off. Stiles keeps moving as Peter presses his face closer to his little hole, muscle tightening and relaxing as he vacillates between Peter's tongue and the cradle of the bedspread. With a growl, Peter grabs his hips and hauls him up to his knees to keep him from rutting his way to completion. Stiles voices his protest with a curse, but simply collapses with a curve to his spine that has his ass presented perfectly for Peter to continue.

By now, Peter has Stiles' hole sloppy and wet with spit. It's loosening more by the second. He spreads his fingers out in the center of Stiles' back, holding him in place and feeling the jackrabbit thundering of Stiles' heartbeat through his spine. Then, gripping Stiles' hip, Peter points his tongue and pushes it in.

"Oh, oh, oh," Stiles pants, fingers curling in the pillow case. His right hand pulls sharply at the cuffs, and the frustrated snuffling that comes next is absolutely delicious. " _Peter_ ," he groans, his mortified blush spreading over his shoulders. "Peter, wanna come— I wanna—"

Peter pulls back, shifting his jaw to give his mouth a break, and smacks Stiles' ass with a resounding crack. It pales for a second under the force, but quickly starts to flush an attractive pink while Stiles bites his lip and whimpers. "Soon," Peter promises, spanking Stiles again on the other side and groping both cheeks because it makes Stiles surrender another embarrassed whine. He licks quickly over Stiles' hole, grinning. "I'm still hungry."

"God, you're such a— ah, ah—" 

Peter never hears what Stiles thinks he is because, as soon as he's shoved his tongue back in his hole, Stiles is fighting for his breath again. Tucking his free hand underneath him, Stiles starts trying to jerk off, but since he has to make do with his left hand, it apparently doesn't provide the relief Stiles hoped it would. Stiles' hand stalls as much as it strokes, unfamiliar with the rapid pace he wants. In the end, Stiles just tightens his fist at the base of his dick and sobs Peter's name.

"Do you need more?" Peter asks, sucking at his middle finger while Stiles is too lost to bother looking at him.

"Please!" Stiles bursts immediately, cuffed hand slamming against the headboard when Peter pushes his wet finger in to the second knuckle.

Chuckling at Stiles' strangled sounds, Peter rocks his finger in and out with shallow thrusts. "Thoughts?"

Stiles shakes his head, gasping in huge heaving breaths. Peter soothes him, petting his quivering thighs as he keeps his finger moving — in and out and in again, Stiles' virgin hole kissing tight every time he withdraws.

"Greedy," Peter murmurs and bends to wiggle his tongue in beside his finger.

It seems impossible at first with how hard Stiles grips Peter's digit with his ass, but gradually, as Peter persists, Stiles opens up with a desperate moan. Distantly, Peter knows he echoes Stiles' moan with one of his own. He shoves the sound into the hot clench of Stiles' body as he inhales the heady arousal that seems to be boiling out of Stiles' skin.

"Peter, Peter, fuck, I'm gonna—" Stiles mumbles, words slurred and careless. His left hand scrambles clumsily into Peter's hair, holding tight so Peter can't back off. "Please," he begs. "Just a little more."

Snarling, Peter thrusts his tongue and finger deeper, licking around his knuckle and sucking at Stiles' sweaty opening until his hips are bucking and he's shouting as he spills. Stiles keeps his grip in Peter's hair the whole time, hips trembling as he tries to keep some part of Peter inside him. Peter lets Stiles keep his finger, but his tongue needs a break. Despite the fingers in his hair, he gives Stiles one last dirty lick from his hole all the way up the length of his spine, and when that makes Stiles moan weakly, Peter can't help feeling proud.

Stiles' knees slip out from under him, and he grunts, uncomfortable with his sudden emptiness as well as with landing in the cooling puddle of come. As Peter looms over him, he opens his eyes, though it seems to take effort, and huffs at Peter. "You look smug," he says.

"That's just my resting face," Peter replies, mouthing at Stiles' skin before the blush completely fades away.

A quick laugh jumps out of Stiles' mouth. "I bet it is," he sighs, tilting his head when Peter goes for his neck. He hums when Peter finds the red mark at the corner of his jaw, and his breathing deepens as Peter turns it into a proper hickey, dark and difficult to hide. 

When Peter is satisfied with the mark he's left and sits back, Stiles is fast asleep, and Peter's suddenly acutely aware of how hard he is. On the heels of that is the realization that there's still _hours_ left before the Sheriff returns from work. There's a lot of things he could do with that much freedom, especially with Stiles at his mercy. Sliding a hand into his pants to squeeze his dick, Peter considers the picture Stiles makes — all that supple skin, hair twisted into tufts and darkened at the edges with sweat, his mouth bitten red from his own teeth, and his cuffed wrist lying limp across the pillow. Stiles has been debauched, no doubt, and it's such a perfect sight that Peter almost wants to have the image framed for his bedroom. 

He tilts his head thoughtfully, pulling his dick out to start stroking it. As close as he is, it doesn't take too long to paint Stiles' back with come, and when he does, he makes sure to get the last few pulses smeared against Stiles' slack hole. Peter holds the head of his dick there for a few moments, tempted to see if he could push in without waking Stiles, but he decides it's too risky when Stiles shifts in his sleep, murmuring unintelligibly. 

Instead, Peter tucks himself back inside his pants and grabs Stiles' cell phone from the bedside table. He takes a few photos — making sure he captures the splatter of come and the pliable wrinkle of Stiles' entrance, not to mention the ring of reddened skin Stiles has managed to create around his wrist — and sends copies of all of them to his phone. He deletes the texts, but leaves the pictures for Stiles to find later. Then, when he's about to put the phone back on its charger, he decides to put his number in Stiles' contacts as well.

Stiles doesn't wake as Peter unlocks the cuffs. He barely stirs when Peter pulls the bed sheet up to his waist, wrapping himself around one of his pillows and sticking a foot out to keep it cool. Peter folds the cuffs into his back pocket and catches himself inches from ruffling Stiles' hair.

He straightens with a frown, shoving his traitorous hand into his pocket. Then, after lingering look, Peter finds the switch for the lamp, turns it off, and leaves.


End file.
